


unorthodox animals

by song_takemehome



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate bittybones, Bara Sans, Bestial Sans, F/M, Female Reader, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, biggies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_takemehome/pseuds/song_takemehome
Summary: bitties are biggies—monsters whose souls are much too oppressive and led by uncontrollable, raw instincts to bond with another soul, thus, needing to be placed in adoption centers for theirs’ and everyone else’s saftey.fate decides, and it decides sans will be the one to soothe the ache you have never found a remedy for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this isn’t my first time writing, but definitely my first time writing Undertale, so forgive me in advance for being a novice in this fandom. chapters containing sexual content will be marked with an asterisk (*). constructive criticism is appreciated.
> 
> enjoy!

With the overwhelming and sudden return of monsters from the Undergound to the surface there was a sub-race among them: biggies. The colossal beings stood between an impressive height of seven to eight feet, the king being the tallest of the biggies, while the rest of the monsters ranged from four to six feet. On contrary to the belief of what was typically associated with such an intimidating size, biggies were as harmless as any other monster.

One would believe they were capable of living without trouble; however, their souls were unstable on such a level that without a permanent bond they were unable to survive. For years, biggies managed to create pseudo-bonds by being in constant company with each other. However, even that was not enough to heal their souls.

Not long after their appearance, establishments were built to temporarily home biggies until they could permanently bond with a single soul that their own sought after,  _ because Fate decided, even before the beginning of time, whose soul would mend with whose. . . _

***

You have always felt this indistinguishable emptiness. From the very moment you were consciously aware of your own being, you knew there was a void within you. You aren’t whole, and it hurts. This emptiness is easy to shroud in the deep crevices of your mind, because you have a family and you have friends. Inside, you know they will never be able to fill the void but that doesn’t make you love them less. 

You never tell anyone why there’s this perpetual ache within you. Over the years, you dub it depression. Something whispers to you that it’s beyond a mental condition, but you don’t know the answer, you’re afraid to know.

The ache merely lingers on the edge of your mind now. You’re already in your early twenties, and you were bound to grow accustomed to it. It scares you—saddens you that you may never be able to find the source of such a scarring pain. 

And then your friend suddenly whisks you away to a biggy adoption center. You’ve seen plenty of biggies before, but being surrounded by more than one sounds overwhelming, especially considering you only stand at an average height.

“Why are we here again?” you mutter to Esther whose arm is securely entwined with yours. 

“I meant to tell you,” she begins with an eagerness you haven’t seen in awhile, “I’ve been seeing a biggie.”

The news is an unexpected wave crashing into your back. She hasn’t made any mentions of adopting. You live together—it’s nearly impossible to hide anything from you. After the surprise retreats into a calm slate, you finally inquire, “For how long?”

“About two weeks and a half.”

Now that she mentions that, it dawns on you how noticeably peppy she’s been. Esther has a glow to her that makes her warmer and cherubic. For as long as you’ve known her (and that story begins in grade school), you have never seen her  _ this _ happy. Briefly, you envy her; you want to be that happy, you want to feel whole, you want what she has.

“Hey, did you hear what I said?” She angles her head to peer at you in concern. 

“Huh?” is the only unintelligible response you manage. Guilt paints over you at your fleeting, green episode; you love her so much, even if she doesn’t soothe the ache, you love her regardless. 

Esther scoffs a laugh. “I asked if you wanted to see some biggies for yourself.”

“Oh,” you utter as you both enter the looming adoption center. 

You nitpick the question; if Esther decides to adopt, she will have to move out to accommodate with her biggie. The notion spears into your already sore heart. You want to be selfish and attempt to convince her to not adopt. You don’t want her to leave you alone. You need someone to be there with you, even if it only veils the void. . .but she looks so thrilled, and you can’t take that away.

Maybe seeing a biggie won’t be so bad. Your unoccupied shoulder lifts once, eyes trained on your sandal-clad feet as they clap on the pristine tiles. Exhaling a quaking breath, you say, “I don’t see why not.”

She smiles radiantly, an infectious gesture that pulls at your own lips. You remain politely silent as she checks in with the receptionist. It’s a goat monster who is tender-mannered with a motherly speech. You immediately take a liking to her.

“I see you’ve brought someone along.” She beams at you. 

“Yes, this is my close friend I’ve mentioned before. I thought it best to finally tell her about my meetings.”

“A pleasure to finally put a face to a name. I’m Toriel.”

You return the greeting in kind. 

“You’re free to go on in.” Toriel tilts her head over her shoulder after a few clicks and types. “Red has been impatiently waiting for you.”

Esther thanks Toriel before the two of you head your way behind the reception desk to approach huge glass doors which lead to a courtyard. There are humans and smaller monsters engaging and spending time with their biggies. 

Your friend doesn’t even take a minute to seek her biggie. Almost instantly, she finds Red, a phoenix. She eagerly drags you toward the monster.

“Wait—” you turn to glance back, because you hear your phone clatter out. Instead, your eyes pass over a hulking skeleton. He’s staring right at you, and you come to a jarring halt. With your cementing standstill and Esther’s wrenching force, it severs your linked arms. Neither of you notice.

Seconds, minutes, hours either rewind or fast forward, you can’t tell. His gaze is a heavy curtain draped along your shoulders, and there’s an invisible power rendering you incapable of walking away even if you wanted to. Despite his grin, he looks on in detachedness; but in those blackened windows homing unwavering pupils of marble, he’s a shell. 

He’s reaching for you.

And you’re reaching for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. i wasn’t expecting such a positive feedback in such a short amount of time. thank you for giving this a chance. things are settling into a pace, so a slight slow burn?? 
> 
> enjoy!

The barrier holding you two is stroked at. You give into temptation to disregard anything aside from him, but the intervention is insistent, strokes becoming clawing that eventually seizes your attention. Drawing your eyes away is a physically impossible feat, but you manage to finally turn to the source of interruption.

“Are you okay?” Esther returns to your side with Red in tow, worry etching both faces. The gorgeous phoenix capes a giant wing across her shoulders, feathers nearly brushing the ground. 

You finally reign hold of your dormant voice. “Yeah, don't worry. Although I don't think my phone will be.” You snatch up said device, feeling a distinctive weight of attention on you but choosing to ignore it for the time being. A miniscule crack blemishes a corner of the previously flawless glass screen. You exaggerate a whine. 

Esther apologizes for the rush, but from the carnation flush on her skin you know she couldn’t have helped it. She introduces you and Red, and, in spite of your reluctance to let her go, you trust Esther in his care. You see it in the littlest gestures that the woman is oblivious or accustomed to, you see it in the way he harmonizes with her, you see it in the way he looks at her. 

Something builds within you at the display, thickening in your throat, and you want to sob, in despair or cheer, you can’t tell, maybe both. Esther has been through her fair shares of downs, really low downs that you can't even compare your own to. She deserves to smile like that, they deserve each other. 

“You two have fun, I'll. . .look around.” You don’t sound as enthusiastic as you want, and Esther notices but doesn't remark on it. “It was nice meeting you, Red.”

The anthropomorphic phoenix nods, and you smile at the two before fleeing as calmly as you can manage. It would be rude to completely vacate the area, so you force yourself to linger, even if you’re a reluctant social butterfly.

_ “More like caterpillar,”  _ you scoff to yourself, mindlessly trekking and weaving through pairs. You don't want to stand still and look awkward, but you don't want to walk circles and look even more awkward. 

Somehow you unconsciously trace your steps back to where you dropped your phone. Automatically, your fingers curve the chipped corner of your phone stashed in your pocket as your eyes roll along your horizontal view with deliberation. 

Out of nowhere, a shudder zips up your spine. There's that heaviness again, but this time it's not just on your shoulders but your entire being, inside and out. 

In slow motion, you lift your head just a fraction, hesitantly peering from beneath the frame of your lashes. Your eyes follow up the division of two slabs of stone. This time, you nearly gasp but catch it before it escapes. You can't move as you look at him, as he looks at you. The skeleton doesn't move from the bench he’s seemingly melded to, and for a moment you almost believes he’s lifeless and merely there for display. When you tuck a stray lock behind an ear, those marbles follow your movement. Definitely alive.

Once your hand falls, his pupils find yours again. Something constricts inside of you, something that drives you forth until your feet are moving. You don't even panic about what you're going to say or how to present yourself. 

Within seconds, you're standing before the giant skeleton, who manages to still be the taller one, even sitting down. You decide you don't especially mind, despite his grin that would come off as unnerving for others, not for you though. He is a skeleton after all, a thickly boned skeleton who towers between seven to eight feet. 

Neither of you exchange any words, content with sharing worlds between your eyes. He decides to make the first move, slowly lifting his hand out. Palm up and arm stretched, he patiently waits for you to take his boney hand; it hangs, suspended in the air shifting around you both. You continue to stare directly into his sockets, his hand appearing just at the edge of the peripheral view of your bottom eyelids. 

His head tilts to one side by a fraction, as if wondering why you aren't taking his hand. He doesn't encourage you, nor does he retract, perfectly fine with waiting for you to decide. 

You take another moment to take in his appearance. A tufts blue hoodie hangs over a white tee, black track pants cladding his long legs, and an odd pair of pink slippers. It's a comical combination, but you don't smile. By the end of your exploration, your final destination falls back to his sockets. You're wringing your hands now, fidgeting with individual fingers. 

He notices, and it's then that his own hand twitches the slightest, sensing the internal turmoil brewing within you. He reaches further, able to easily capture your hand in his if he chooses to, but he doesn't. Your fingers are mere breaths-width apart, yet he doesn't dare close the sliver of gap.

You don't know why you hesitate, why you even let doubt pollute you. This sudden attraction is alarming and you don't know how to approach it. That same voice within that has been a ghost alongside your consciousness reassures you, so you extend your fingers out to terminate the space; your warm skin touches even warmer bone. 

You shudder violently at the contact while he flinches once, a rough jolt that has him tensing. You notice him jerk forth, as if he’s going to lunge at you but restrains himself. It takes you aback. Then you notice his hand trembling, as if he wants to touch more. 

With a timid step forth, you cross his personal barriers and slide your fingers along his. Tenderly, you whisper, “it's okay.”

Faster than you expect, he encases his sizable hand completely around yours. You both sigh audibly.

It feels like  _ home. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Haileyice7: concerning updates, since my chapters are short they're quick to whip up and edit within three days. i like to step away from it to give my brain a mental rest before editing, though. i do have a life outside of writing, so i may not be able to update in three days. also, this standard doesn't apply with every story that i may write in the future (refer to my profile).

You don't exactly remember being able to deconstruct walls between strangers upon first meetings, but he doesn't feel like a stranger. This inexplicable familiarity courses throughout you in enthralling tides, lulling you deeper. He doesn’t express any thoughts, yet you somehow know the same gravitation thrums within his core.

A silent moment with murmurs of others as static background noise passes. You don't know what to do, suddenly shaking because you feel his presence soothing the emptiness.

You're unhinged at this abrupt surge of fulfilment. Fulfilment? Is that what this is? The questions begin to sprout at a suffocating rate, vines stretching everywhere, and you pull away. Why, now, is the void being mollified; why, after all these years; why by this mysterious skeleton?

His gaze that was previously focused on your hand slices to your eyes clouded in puzzlement and fear. At your recoil, he snaps his other hand out to shackle your wrist. With a tenderness that quakes your heart, he cradles your resisting hand. The marbles of his sockets holds you captive, and he’s silently pleading you.  _ Stay _ .

Involuntarily, you give in. You allow him to draw you closer, his boney fingers gliding along your wrist, over your fluttering pulse, and—and you can’t do this.

Terror twists your face as you struggle to disentangle your hand. You don't understand why you feel this way, fear it, and you're unsure if you're ready to know. You don't know what for, but you apologize. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, having lost the courage to look at him once you see crushing hurt cross his features. “I’m so sorry, I can't—” you choke out, beginning to curl within yourself.

You completely pull away. Never once did he attempt to let you go, and that haunts you unimaginably.

***

You don't tell Esther what happens that day, she doesn't probe you for it.

When you dream, you dream about him. You become afraid to sleep, because you're eager to meet him in the cradle of your pillows and blankets. You don't know why his touch comforts you, why his pain makes you hurt, or why the voice is telling you to return to him.

This eats at you for a week, and you feel the ache burning worse than it has ever burned. It hasn't felt this terrible before. Each passing day seems to lacerate the hole bigger.

You tell Esther. She knows.

“I saw you with the skeleton. I thought you were chatting with him, so I assumed you might have considered adopting, but. . .” She doesn't need to reiterate what you both know happens after.

Silence weighs on you both as she waits for you until you break. You tell her about the ache, about the dissatisfaction with your relationships, and the confrontation between you and him.

“It's okay.” Esther wraps her arms around you to ease the tears. “It's natural to be afraid of the unknown.”

But you both know your tears aren't shedding for this reason. You're internally torn because you know he’s what you need, but you're not sure if you're prepared. You're afraid it might be Fategiving you false hope of wholeness only to rip it away and leave you broken.

Esther explains she’s felt the very same void despite being loved by so many. Then she met Red and everything made sense.

“Biggies only have half of a soul, their other half belonging to someone they are meant to bond with, whether another monster or human. Some biggies die before they ever find their other half,” she says, her voice brittle. “You need him as much as he needs you.”

You realize she’s asking you to save yourself and him.

You're going to save him.

***

This time you go alone. You’re beyond anxious, breaking in cold sweat. Guilt mauls you as you’re reminded of his hurt.

Toriel lights up when she recognizes you. “Back again, I see.”

You give her a watery smile. “Yeah.” It’s quiet.

She notices your behavior, joy morphing to concern in seconds. “Are you feeling well?”

No, you're not. You were so confident in walking in here, apologizing, and begin to know the skeleton. However, doubt steals it's way in you, and you feel an urge to walk back out.

You explain to Toriel what you’ve told your friend and what you two discussed. “I’m just not sure how to go about with this, and I'm not sure if I  _ can  _ do this; what if I’m not the one, what if we aren't compatible, what if—”

“My dear,” Toriel places a large paw on your shaking shoulder, “take a deep breath.” You obey, taking a few. “You don’t have to decide an adoption immediately. You can set up appointments to meet your chosen biggie before you commit. Does that sound alright?”

Her voice is cotton and warm milk. Once calm, you mutely nod.

She puts you into the system and grants you a packet with information on biggies concerning adoption.

“I assume the biggie you're set on is the one you mentioned?”

“Yes.” You nervously shuffle the papers.

“He is now set aside exclusively for you. Others may not meet with him to prevent conflict between adopters and to keep the biggie comfortable. You can set up appointments three times a week for two hours. Know that the maximum timespan must be a month before you are allowed to adopt. However, you're only given three months at most to get to know your biggie and decide on adoption or your arrangement is terminated. Any questions?”

You shake a negative response. Toriel smiles before sending you on your way.

“He’s in the courtyard. Same bench.”

You thank her and leave with shaking legs. It's easy to find him. You make your way to him at an agonizingly slow pace, as if approaching a predator. You don't even make it within ten feet and he whips his head to look at you.

He slowly reaches his hand out for you, and you reach back.


	4. Chapter 4

Your hands entwine seamlessly. His bones are thick, heavy, and so warm. You allow him to draw you closer with a gentle tug until you stand between his spread knees, eye level with his nasal bone. 

The intimate proximity is foreign, something that sends blood surging to your head and heating your, now, richly dusted cheeks. His thumbs run  _ slow  _ paths along your knuckles while his other phalanges trace your palms and wrists. This boils the blood that's risen to just beneath the surface. It doesn't help he catches on and begins to shake in unheard laughter. 

You begin to retreat, but his hands are quick to secure. His grip is firm but not with a force enough to induce even the slightest pain. You can free yourself if you wish because it's that loose, but it's also firm enough to make it known he doesn't want you to go.

“Don’t.” His voice that emanates from his set teeth is a soft rumble of thunder fabricating within the abysmal, drab sky. 

The unexpected voice surprises you, eyes finally rising to clash with marbles. Mindlessly, you trap your lip between the edge of your teeth as you obey his request. 

He watches with an alarming keenness, marbles intensely fixated on the trivial gesture of morsel flesh and ivories. Just for a second, a second nearly unaccountable for, his grip tightens, bone sinking into skin. It still isn’t painful, but it makes you jump at the unexpected pressure, and he loosens his hold once more. 

You’re still faintly timorous; you don’t know how to act, afraid you might do or say something to hurt him. 

Again, he seems to sense your thoughts and pulls you further, knees now kissing the bench. You're reluctant with the closer proximity, but soon find comfort in it. 

Drawing in a quiet breath, you finally say, “I'm sorry.” He tilts his head in confusion. “For yesterday, for leaving.” Realization is clear upon his face, but he keeps silent to allow you to continue. “I just—I,” you can’t decide where to keep your eyes, darting everywhere except on him, “I was confused. This hurting inside me, it didn't hurt as much when we—” you let your words fall away. “I’m sorry for running away,” you whisper, quivering. 

“Hey, hey, you don't need to apologize—”

“Yes, I do,” you retort a bit harsher than you intend, pulling your hands back, a gesticulation of protest, and dragging his limbs along unintentionally. 

He disentangles his hands from yours, only to latch onto your elbows and gathers you even closer. A calm shushing spills from him as his hands soothes your muscles in encouraging caresses. 

Your arms loosen, and you gently snag onto his sleeves. You feel a bit of bone beneath the cloth, your nails finding purchase on it. He shudders but doesn't resist. 

“Listen, okay? I know you were scared and confused, you probably still are. Don't be sorry for that.”

He doesn't need to reassure you further, his simple words are completely enough. Searing tears blind you as you nod in agreement, accepting his comfort. 

“Aw, none of that now,” he whispers, hands trailing up to your neck. His fingers cradle your nape, lacing through the hair there, and thumb strokes your cheek. 

You melt at his touch, a whimper thick in your throat. Instinctively, you relax, as if you've done this many times before. The blush still burns, but you can't fight it. With what little thread of courage you have left, you tell him you’ve decided to set up appointments with him. “I’m still unsure, but I want to try.”

You look into those marbles, and you just know he feels the same. You both have ached for so long, you don’t want to be alone anymore. He sees your fear, sees your reluctance, but he can also see your want. 

“C’mere,” he growls, barely audible. His hand releases your arm only to coil around your waist, sliding to the small of your back. He brings you forth, and you follow without hesitation. Your arms vine around each other, grasping and clinging to everything for the sake of just feeling. It’s right, it’s comfort, it's home. 

His name is Sans, and you discover his vehement reluctance concerning your leave. He allowed you to take off the first time, but not this time. His long arm curled around your waist tells you that much. 

When you notice, with a start, that your time is nearing its limit, you attempt to slide off the bench, but his arm strikes out to halt you. Sans doesn’t utter a word, staring you down, but you know anyway. 

_ Stay. _

This time you aren’t running away. You want to stay, but you can't, afraid of consequences that might put your arrangement in peril. You take his hand in yours. Initially, he resists, clutch tightening around the dip of your waist, but you coax him with a smile. 

“I’ll be back Wednesday.” You breathe a laugh at his slight whine, hand tightening once again. 

“That’s too long of a wait.” 

“That's a day away.”

You’re already thigh to thigh, but he's intent on bringing you on his lap. With a soft protest, you miraculously escape his hold, or he probably let you. He weighs a disapproving stare on you (almost as if he were scolding a child), dragging you by the hips between his legs instead. 

“I already promised,” you reassure, not expecting this sudden display of aggressive behavior. 

Sans looks you in the eyes, foreheads almost touching, before cradling you in an embrace. His arms are so long, wrapping around you, that his hands meet in the center of your sternum. For a long moment you hold each other. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispers against the tender shell of your ear. 

He takes a moment to affectionately nuzzle into your hair before he manages to let you go with great will power. You feel his gaze until you reenter the lobby.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple of you are interested in sans' p.o.v. while this is strictly from the reader's view (you), i understand the curiosity of reading sans' thought on this whole thing. so, why not; i'll sprinkle in a few of his p.o.v. after this chapter.

With only half of a soul a Biggie’s lifespan does not endure to the average extent of other Monsters. Being so, they are prone to ancient, instinctual nature of aggression; this behavior is risky for both Biggies and others, for a Biggie’s soul is seeking for their other half and will often attempt to claim and bond with others (who may not be their half) in a blind, uncontrollable state to relieve the pain of lacking a whole soul. That will only harm both souls in the process. It is, however, possible for Biggies to be adopted without the bonding of the souls and still save the Biggie. This is the very reason why Biggies remain in constant company of tightly interlaced circles of other Biggies to temporarily alleviate their lonesomeness. Adoption centers keep both parties safe. In some cases Biggies never find their other half.

If you have ever been in a constant state of inexplicable loneliness that cannot be fulfilled by relationships with others, no matter how many or how great, it may be that your soul is seeking for its half. Often times it is mistaken for depression, and other times Monsters or Humans confuse their depression for a need of a Biggie. If you are unsure, do not hesitate to test for either to prevent irreversible complications. 

***

Adopting a Biggie can be overwhelming and not for everyone. Their size isn’t the only thing to consider. They may only tower a few feet above average, but furniture and such will have to be updated if your Biggie cannot find comfort in them. Should the case be that your home is not capable of being altered to accommodate your Biggie, you will be provided new living conditions and monthly subsidy. Federal and state adoption assistance programs are designed to help adopters meet their Biggie’s needs.

***

What is a Biggie heat? How do you handle your Biggie in heat? Is there a way to prevent a heat period? 

If your Biggie shows signs of unusual aggression toward others, excessive attachment and need of your constant attention, and emotional sensitivity, they are in heat, a period of time (usually between five to seven days occurring once a month) in which a Biggie’s hormonal levels heighten dramatically. 

While they usually masturbate, it is not uncommon for adopters to help relieve a Biggie’s needs, for they often seek out assistance from the adopter anyhow. Keep in mind there can be physical dangers to consider. In some cases there are emotional and physical consequences if a Biggie resorts to force against their adopter. For that reason, it is recommended to set therapeutic sessions to aide a Biggie through their heat cycle regardless if you can directly help your Biggie. Otherwise, it is best to give your Biggie privacy, unless they approach you. For the betterment of both parties, come to an equal conclusion that will be beneficial.

A Biggie’s heat is generally harmless, as they are not difficult to keep under control, but a heat cycle is a natural occurrence that cannot be permanently halted. 

***

Every Biggie is unique and has different needs, so do not let these common behaviors define who your Biggie is. Always be conscious of their individuality amongst many others.

***

You dissect the packet meticulously, learning the essentials to perfection. Some material undoubtedly makes you falter, especially the heat period. You’re dismayed by the information, not expecting to deal with that. But this isn’t everything there is to Sans, just the surface, and you want to love him despite these trials. Again, doubt is still firmly sewn within you, an insecurity you can't conquer, but it doesn’t deter you. 

Now that Esther is aware, she suggests you two guide each other through this process. She’s help you hurriedly latch onto, knowing you’ll need the moral support from a decision you settled on despite your festering worries. She may not know any more than you at the moment, but having her by your side is solace. 

“I don’t know why I felt compelled to visit an adoption center suddenly. I guess I finally snapped. Don’t get me wrong, you make me happy, my family makes me happy, but it’s not enough, it’s never enough. I detest that, and I  _ always  _ will. Not that I don’t appreciate Red, but I’ve always wished everyone was enough, y’know?” There’s a reserved anguish in the way Esther admits her story, a way that you think it’s your own she’s retelling.

“Yeah,” you force out of your lumping throat, palming furiously at your burning eyes. Self aggravation from the waterworks nicks the bubble of melancholy you’ve been wallowing in for the past couple weeks. 

Esther hears the brittle emotions from that singular syllable answer and breathes a laugh, playfully digging a finger into your sensitive ribs. You jolt at the ticklish invasion with a cracked yelp and glare at her harmlessly. Her muted laughter ascends in volume as you attack in return. Laughing takes away a few layers of sorrow that has built over the years, and you want to cry, yet again, because you feel a filling contentment.

“It gets better, I promise.”

And you believe her. 

***

A day of twenty-four hours becomes tortuous. You begin to wonder if Fate enjoys making impatience tormenting; however, as restless as you are to meet Sans, everything from the packet slams back, leaving you a nerve-wrecking mess. You will have to confront him with his needs if you decide to adopt him. 

With a mental shake, you brace yourself as you enter the adoption center. It’s all natural and part of being human, or monster in his case, so there should be no shame. Before your thoughts can branch off, you’re halted by a recognizable grip. 

You break from the hold of your messy thoughts, eyes marking a quick path from the osseous hand to marble whites that are positively teeming with delight, permanent grin eliciting a smile of your own. 

“Missed you.”

And you believe him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes to keep in mind:  
> 1) monsters cannot see souls, otherwise that'd ruin the whole point about wrong soul bonding leading to a possible death  
> 2) souls are not visible in any way, unless it is taken from the body. it can be done by magic of another, resulting in death/harm of both parties; in combat, which can be done by the fighter him/herself; and in soul bonding  
> 3) because souls don't just float out of someone's being (except for those three, lone reasons mentioned above), there's no such thing as soul-on-soul sex or intimately touching it  
> 4) i realize mettaton is an exception... BUT since he's not presented in this story, he's of no concern :p  
> 5) a few resets did happen, but overall, frisk completed with a true pacifist ending

He claimed the wooden stands with whorls and grooves and chips that he memorized, because he liked to watch the snow fall. No matter what others said differently, the snow fall was their home. Quite an unforgiving home at times but home regardless, and it was where he felt most at ease. He was born in snow, lived in snow, and would die in snow.

But then came down the hole a human, a child who defied all the horrors and wonders of a world lost in a vast darkness, a world that eventually became forgotten, and this child was their hope. A curious, _determined_ little thing. Too smart for her own good, at times.

“Taking—no, stealing. Stealing a soul, regardless human or monster, comes at a. . .lofty price. For each human soul that has been wrongfully taken, a dozen handful of monsters pay for the deed by upon Fate’s word: a soul for a soul. However, because monsters are so much more powerful and magical than humans our souls are only halved; it’s why we’re bigger, to ease and stable the soul some,” Sans explained one light snow fall when Frisk had finally asked why some monsters were larger than others.

“Does it hurt?” she inquired with the naivety of a child she was.

He could only offer a humorless, dry laugh. “It hurts more than anything. Death is more merciful than living the rest of my miserable life with only half a soul.”

She would never know the pain, not first hand, but she understood it, just as much as the next half-souled monster.

“Do you hate him?” She doesn’t have to say his name.

“I did, once, or maybe I still do, I don’t know,” he finally admitted after a second. “But if I were him, I would have done the same.” She wasn’t even horrified by his confession. “We’ve all been banished down here. We’ve all accepted it to an extent, made a life from it, but we all still miss the surface. What he’s doing is far from right, but for the longest time it was the only way we believed would save us, it’s why no one said anything.”

She finally frowned and turned away. He regretted his words, but wasn’t sorry for being honest, but he was sorry for having ever thought that way.

In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he recited to her, “I heard that once a soul becomes halved, that second piece searches for another soul that Fate decided would be its whole. That second piece attaches to the fated other, replacing half, so that the fated is one part their own and one part biggie. Fate says we’re meant to find each other, and only then will we be whole.”

She smiled. “Really?”

“Really, really, kiddo.”  

“You’re half is out there somewhere, Sans.”

He never had the will to tell her he didn’t believe so. He didn’t have much faith for himself, but he let her have faith for him.

And then she went on to break the barrier.

***

He knew being at the center was better for his soul, for other souls, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it; it meant being away from Papyrus. Being underground, the magical balance was undisturbed, it was a constant flow. This made being around other monsters sufficient enough for biggies. Being on the surface, the magical balance was compelled to assimilate to the humans’ presence, and with it half-souls could no longer depend on other monsters, only themselves and other biggies.

This made it nearly impossible to meet Papyrus. He missed the snow fall, he missed the underground.

Within himself he knew a part of him would eventually forgive Asgore, but perhaps that would never extend to humans, even if the generation that drove them below the mountain was nothing but dust. He wasn’t hateful, but a great grudge collared him. Or stubbornness, as Toriel often said.

He didn’t want to accept it when this human slipped past the courtyard doors, her presence bashing into his soul like an unforeseen force, yet grounding him with a comfort he longed for all at once. He saw her, he thought he saw himself inside her, and he knew. And when their eyes connected for the first time—he couldn’t breathe. And, _stars_ , when she touched him—he was lost.

She was his.

And he was hers.

He refused it, denied it but couldn’t, for the life of him, stop himself from clutching to her hand, like a line listlessly flowing in the waters he was drowning in. It wasn’t just the soothing of his soul, gods, it was so much more. Never once had he ever felt such a warmth that screamed home, more home than Snowdin.

He knew he was ruined when she pulled away and could only sit and watch as she fled. He knew he was ruined, because nothing, not even when his soul was ripped in half, not even when he witnessed the death of his friends and brother over and over again, nothing hurt more than to see her leave. It was an ember-tipped spear knifing directly into what little was left of his aching soul.

He watched some biggies find their halves after settling in the center. He watched some cling to a willing soul out of desperation and deteriorate. Now he was unsure if he had found his half or if he had become so hopeless. He was livid with that slip of a girl that gave comfort, with Asgore taking innocent souls, with himself because he knew throwing a tantrum would fix nothing.

It was when she returned to him that he realized she rid of his pain, as though that void never existed to begin with. He needed her as much as she did him, he felt it as if it were instincts.

His soul ached for years, for his soul, for someone. Now it ached for her. 


	7. Chapter 7

You're surprised the bench isn’t embellished with engravings from Sans constant weight on it. For a mere skeleton held together by convoluted magic you'll never truly grasp, he weighs heavier than you. It still boggles you that he can easily lift and carry you around like a stuffed doll (which he has done in a hug before); his strength and overall Herculean being is a drumming reminder to your head that he isn't a biggie for no reason. Yet with all his intimidating size, he’s a gentle giant. You notice this in the surrounding biggies, almost as if they believe they’re handling glass figurines. Almost.

Sans is an exception to this; the dainty glass is to be held in a firm grasp as to not slip out but not too firm, for it is glass after all. He seems to know you aren't as fragile as you look, and at times it still surprises you when his grip is particularly strong, not that he ever hurts you. He knows his strength well, never placing enough that it becomes uncomfortably restrictive.

He’s not an open book and neither are you a spectacular reader, but with him you catch onto the littlest details. It's nothing to be able to claim knowing him on a personal depth, not yet, but it's a progress that reminds you of your soul. It makes you vulnerable to each other, a degree in a relationship that you often find yourself reluctant stepping on.

“You've oiled your gears too much,” Sans thunders velvet-like, a soft touch with a tainting of gruff undertones.

His remark drags you out of your thoughts. You stop fiddling with the hem of your blouse and angle your head to eye him. “What?”

He only chuckles, shoulders rising and falling in jumpy patterns. Lifting a hand, he beats a phalange upon your temple. “I said,” he leans in particularly close, and you still aren't used to the closeness, despite previous encounters, “you're thinking too much, girlie.”

“Aren't I always?” you carp to yourself, eyes straying for a moment before being pulled back by Sans’ movement. His taping ceases in favor of carding his boney fingers through your hair affectionately.

“Yeah, you are. Pay attention to me,” he growls, playfully pouting as if he were a child denied of his wants. At least you laugh, which you note is a relief to him.

Your initial mirth is short lived, however. It's true that you're always lost in thought. Your insecurities seem to have a better grip on you, more than you would like.

A touch to the corner of your lips reminds you of Sans company. “Where's my smile gone?”

“Yours?” you ask in an accusatory manner, meaning no harm.

As if his logic makes obvious sense, he continues on, “Of course. I make you smile, it's of my doing, so it’s mine, right?”

He’s trying to distract you, and you can’t help the nudge to his shoulder (he doesn't move), a ridiculous smile adoring your face. You hate how he's almost smug, and he knows it.

“There it is,” he says with a pinch to your cheek, to which you look on unimpressed.

What astonishes you the most is his tendencies to, in a strange sense, baby you, which is quite ironic. You don’t entirely find it a nuisance, rather, it’s endearing. The last time someone treated you this way you were ten, and to be completely honest with yourself, you kind of enjoy the devoted attention.

“If you don’t start chatting me up, I’m not gonna be nice.”

You don’t know him that well, but know him well enough to detect a comical threat. Amused, you decide to humor him. “How are you going to go about that?”

His marbles shimmer with mischief. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re ticklish.”

At that statement, you straighten to attention. Your horror must be obvious, else Sans wouldn’t be smirking like that. You can even begin to differentiate his grins. “Wait, not in front of everybody,” you protest, fighting the instinct the flee.

“So in private is okay?” You see the laugh in his sockets.

“How about no tickling at all?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, already tugging you onto his lap.

Your face ignites brilliantly. “Sans, please.” Your plead falls on deaf ears, or lack thereof. Instead, you result to bat his hands away that grasp your sides and keep you attached to his sternum.

“Can I show you my room?” he asks, previous teasing gone in place of careful questioning.

It hasn’t been that long since you two have been meeting, but you trust him on such an immense level. Within yourself, you know he would never do anything to hurt you. After all, if not now, crossing that boundary would come sooner than later. With a faint nod, Sans sets you down on your own legs for once. Always the one who has to have contact one way or another, the biggie stations a hand on your back and leads you inside.

The walk is spent in companionable silence, crossing corridors and turning corners. You don’t know what to expect when you see his room, but it doesn’t surprise you at all that he’s a bit of a slob. You smile fondly at that. What does surprise you is a desk littered in scribbled papers and a shelf overflowing with spine-creased and dog-eared books.

“You’re a reader?”

“Only concerning formal science. Not the most fun subject for everyone, but it’s my passion.” He shrugs.

You tilt to meet his eyes and beam at him blissfully. “Glad to know more about my biggie.”

A beat passes, you look on innocently, he looks on blankly. At the possessive claim, a growl rips from him and he gathers you into his arms, twirling you around until you laugh. It’s been ages since you’ve last laughed so genuinely. On the bed, he seats you on his lap, and tells you all you want to hear.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even if there really isn't a solid plot i'm going with, i feel i'm rushing this. . .i promise i'm not, because that would be boring. everyone loves foreplay, right?

Two and a half weeks stroll on by before you can even comprehend. Always determined to make time for Sans it’s no surprise that you’re disappointed when overtime calls for you to forgo some bonding time. Not only are you working a twelve hour shift now, but you’re so fatigued by the end of the day that you want nothing more than to shove food into your system before crashing into bed and knocking out for a solid night.

Day after day, you tell yourself you’ll visit Sans. Night after night, you tell yourself missing a day won’t hurt because you can’t stand on your feet without possibly falling asleep. By the end of a Sans-less week, guilt isn’t the only thing that persuades you to go meet him, it’s also the sudden pain exploding within your chest. The fire spreads quicker than with a dry forest, reaching to every part within you. Fear races through your veins, and you bolt out of your apartment without even explaining your whereabouts. 

You thank whatever gods that prevent you from getting pulled over while you manically speed through the streets and toward the adoption center. As soon as you rush passed the glass doors, Toriel snaps her head up, as if expecting you. The concern pulling her face doesn’t settle well with you. Another twinge of pain shoots through, and it makes you worry. 

“He’s in his room,” she says, a tender reassurance paired with a golden smile. 

You thank her hastily and dart off into the direction of Sans. As soon as his door comes in view, you skid to a harsh stop, breathless and more than prepared to fervently apologize for your negligence; however, you don’t even have the chance to knock, for the door wrenches open. 

Sans looms in the doorway of his pitch black room. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, all except his sockets. His familiar pinpricks are absent, leaving his sockets empty and as dark as his room. Even his grin isn’t the genuine grin you’ve seen in the past; it’s the very same one you saw upon your first meeting. The biggie is more unreadable than ever, an eerie quietness radiating from him, like the calm before a storm. And your words die before they touch your tongue as you peer up at him, trembling and panting. 

You hesitantly reach out, afraid he may not want you to touch him, afraid he may reject you, but he crushes those doubts with a wicked roar that rumbles as deep as the ocean and yanks you to him. The force is greater than any he’s ever used on you so far, painfully jerking your arms taut. His boney grasp is so tight you think they might meld with your own bones. Without a doubt, you’ll bruise. Sans hauls you into the blanket of his room, slamming the door shut with a wave of his hand. You’ve yet to witness his magic, so that’s a first. 

You stumble in the darkness, led by the harsh pulling of your bigge. “Sans, I—” 

He interrupts you when he comes to an abrupt stop. You hear the shuffle of sheets and the creak of bed springs. Never letting you go, Sans tugs at you once and you fall into his rib cage. As soon as he locks his arms around you, he falls back into his bed. He shifts around some, positioning you between his body and the mattress. You’re thoroughly trapped.

“Shh,” he whispers, his voice falling out calmer than you expect.

What startles you the most, despite this new level of aggression from him, is the fact that you feel no discomfort from his bones fully weighing down on you, it’s the fact that you don’t feel them at all. Instead, you feel some sort of mass, as if he produced pseudo flesh. You don’t have the courage to ask or speak. You obey Sans’ wordless command, remaining silent in his desperate clutch.

You don’t know how long you two lay there for, the dark making it impossible to discern time. And when you shift even the slightest, he reprimands you with a quick squeeze that pulls a grunt from you. Finally, he maneuvers his jaw from the crown of your head and latches his nasal cavity to your ear lobe. His breath is exceptionally warm as wisps of it escape from his openings. 

“Tell me why you haven’t come to see me at all this entire week,” he says directly into your ear, not even bothering with whispering.

You shudder as tingles drop down your spine. Now the guilt returns. “I had overtime. After work, I was just so exhausted that I. . .well, I neglected to visit you,” you sigh. “I should have asked Toriel or Esther to let you know. I’m sorry, I really am.” Remorse taints your voice as you try your best to convince him you mean what you say. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. “Are you truly sorry?”

“Yes, yes I am. Even if I was tired, it was my fault for not reaching you, and because of that you—” You grasp where your heart is.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” His phalanges trace yours.

You nod in response, allowing him to remove your fingers so that he can feel your warmth.

“Prove it to me.” His hand splays so wide that it perfectly spans past the entirety of your chest. The very tips of his phalanges trace your collar bone, his middle fingering the dip “Prove to me how sorry you are,” he demands, brining himself to hover his skull above your face and keeping his body still pinning yours.

You feel his touch travel up your neck, to your chin, to the bottom of your lips. It isn’t difficult to decipher what he wants. You can’t even see him, but you know he sees you. Patiently, you reach to grasp his skull to bring it closer. Your lips meet his teeth, stars collide.


	9. Chapter 9

His ivories are as hard as you expect, solid yet pleasantly warm, that you don’t expect. They seem ordinary enough from a glance but magic thrums against your lips upon instant contact. His magic is electrifying, a hum penetrating beyond a single layer of skin and tattooing to your insides. All this rush of euphoria from a simple touch of lips to teeth? You suspect anything more than a kiss would be too much for the human body, but that’s for a later date to worry about.

So entranced by the pleasant sensations you jump when Sans parts his clenched teeth and something entirely foreign laps a searing, wet trail across your chastely pursed mouth. You jerk back to identify an illuminating cyan morsel within the dark, highlighting Sans’ skeletal features—he looks feral: his usual grin crooked in a wicked slant, one socket grown dark, the other alight in a similar cyan flame; and his tongue dragging across his _sharp_ canine that you seemed to completely miss in the beginnng.

For the first time since you’ve been meeting with the monster, the faintest representation of fear constricts your heart. Well, perhaps fear is a strong word for this case, but you’re undeniably nervous at the possibility of what he can do to you. You don’t doubt him, your trust as unwavering as if you were to hold a glass underneath a spout of water and trusting it to catch every drop. That, however, doesn’t dissuade the anxiousness jittering your nerves.

Always able to catch onto your emotions, Sans’ magic-produced tongue dissipates, plunging you two back into the nightly veil. Now you can see the twin pinpricks of lights from his sockets. He channels his pulsating magic into you, something you still don’t understand how he does it, promptly calming you.

“Sorry,” he rests his forehead atop yours, “suppose it's still too early for that.”

Heat rushes up your neck to your ears at his implication. “I just wasn't expecting that. I didn't even know you could. . .” You trail off, not bold enough to finish your sentence as simple as it is, because you’re now highly aware of other body parts he can make tangible.

“Make body parts?” he finishes with a taunting remark. You can hear the smirk painting his words. “Just one of the perks of being a magical skeleton. You didn’t think I’d lay on top of you as just a pile of bones, did you?” he teases, pressing his clacking teeth to your cheek.

“Yes, actually,” you admit, albeit hesitantly. “Although, since you are heavier than me I don’t think that would be the most comfortable experience.” You absently rest a hand on his shoulder wing, giving experimental strokes of the warm muscles.

His hiss is razor sharp. “Be careful, girlie, a little touch can be read the wrong way,” he warns, a mere rumble of words that shake you.

As if burned, you rip your fingers away from the pseudo-flesh, embarrassed by the seductive threat. Your mumbled apology is so quiet, and he chuckles in response. He captures your hand, laying your palm across his teeth, but his words have already planted worry into you, so you attempt to free yourself with futile tugs from his ever tightening hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he laughs, not bothering to hide his amusement at your restless movements. As if he isn’t already weighing on you, he relaxes entirely, effectively rendering you helpless. He’s literal deadweight and there are no possibilities to free yourself.

“You’re not in pain anymore, so I think we can get up now,” you pout.

“Never.” He nips your hand, teasing the point of his canine into the soft bedding of skin right between the knuckles and sending jolts of magic shooting through your arm. “If you think I’ll just let you walk away, you’re wrong. I will never let you go.” Despite the playful tone, the depth of his words aren’t a laughing matter. If you were to manage an escape, he’d be quicker; if you were to flee from him, he’d give chase; if you were to hide away, he’d find you.

You’re disturbed from your thoughts when he produces his tongue again, lighting up the little space between the two of you. Unsure of his intentions, you opt to silently observe the mystical muscle that glistens and oozes with saliva. Instantly, you recoil when he licks a heated line from your pulse to the tips of your fingers, leaving a glowing trail of wetness in its wake.

“Ugh, Sans!” You ignore the icy-hot bursts of magic that strikes your nerves uncontrollably, and not just in your hand; it travels through you, raising goosebumps and sending trembles up your spine. You watch in morbid fascination as cyan globules, thicker than human saliva, dribbles from his tongue and onto your palm. Each drop is a little spark that has you shaking. You _try_ to ignore.

“You called?” he rasps out in an amused breath, stubbornly keeping your hand attached to his teeth.

Knowing he can see how flustered you are, you decide not to indulge him. “Come on, get up. You know I can’t stay too long.”

He sighs long and deep, granting you your freedom. As soon as he angles his body off, you sit up but don’t move to leave. As rude as it is, you wipe your slicked hand on your shirt, disregarding the chuckle that follows.

“I need to head home,” you say in a soft volume.

“I know.”

“I’ll be back.”

“I know.”

You stare at each other.

“Kiss me,” he says.

In no rush, you lean down to peck him on his teeth, lingering there when magic strokes at your lips.

“Again,” he demands when you pull away.

So you kiss him twice.

“Again.”

And you kiss a third time until his hands cages your back and holds you to him, as if you might disappear the moment he isn’t touching you. You don’t mind.


	10. Chapter 10

San is touching you again: a brush to the knuckle as a reminder of his presence, a graze to the ear while he tucks hair away, a chuck to the chin when he jokes (oh, yes, you’ve discovered exactly where he stands in his humor). You don't consider yourself touch-starved, but the more subtle contact he initiates, the harder it is to imagine your days without them. He enjoys the opportunity for the sake of nothing but to feel in earnest, physically and emotionally. He doesn't tell you this, but it isn't difficult to recognize, because your reasoning falls in line with his.

The pair of you are lounging in his room for the afternoon, piled like cats on his bed, and eating up time by reading. He isn’t offended when you tote along your own material, as opposed to settling for his science texts. Sans, lying curled around your sitting form, traces a listless pattern up and down your thigh with the tips of his boney fingers, his other magic-encased hand poised in a way that directs his book to remain afloat in the air. You think his caresses innocent enough, that is until he grows bold and begins to wander.

“Sans!” you squeak. His fingers find their way to the soft, flesh of your ticklish side. You appreciate he keeps over the clothes for this, but his tormenting squeeze brings about violent writhing all the same.

“Yeah?” And he has the gall to play oblivious.

“Quit being a bully.” You think to try escaping, but he puts an end to the idea before it can happen.

“Bully? This isn't being a bully,” his book drops with an ominous thud, “ _this_ is being a bully.”

Your vertical view turns horizontal before you can slip out a protest, or any words for that matter, opting to huff instead, being as your lungs nearly collapse from the loss of air. Disoriented by the sudden change of position, you fail to realize Sans straddling you until it's too late. He doesn't bother to shackle your hands down, knowing well you can’t peel him off even if you try. You scream as soon as his phalanges dig into your sides.

“What’s the magic word?” he taunts, a manic grin stretching his face.

“You're terrible!” And yet, you laugh at his play on words. “Alright, alright, please?”

“Don’t hear enough begging.”

“Sans, by Asgore’s beard, if you don't let up, I'm not buying you those snack mixes—”

He tears his hands away before you can finish your threat, not taking the chance to ruin his snack time. You're convinced it's a sin he knows how ticklish you are and still proceeds to torture you. To make up for it, he gathers you into his arms and cradles you, like you're a newborn.

“Forgive me? You know I can't resist making you laugh.”

“Don't try to act cute after the crime you committed.”

“Oh, that's not crime worthy, girlie.”

“It is.”

“No, it's not.” Instead of arguing his point, he proves it with a kiss to the corner of your lip, a deliberate kind of thing, which clenches your heart. His teeth drift to your ear, and he rasps out, “Bad enough for you yet?”

A shuddering sigh is the only response to the kiss burning your jaw. Down he continues, reaching your pulse and tasting with a meager touch of tongue. The magic seeps in, tingling as it spreads.

“What _is_ that?” you gasp, needing to anchor yourself or else you’ll be lost.

“Something only the Stars can explain.” Even as the giver, Sans is as affected as you are, based on his panting.

“Sans—”

“Shh.” And he kisses you, as if the world is crumbling apart around you both. Somehow, he's figured how to make it so the bones of his face can form lips over his teeth, making the experience that much more intense.

You pull back in surprise before he can put his tongue into play. “How did you do that?”

“Kiss now, questions later.”

The two of you indulge for a lingering moment, breaking away for the need to breathe. You feel faint in the most pleasant way, almost asking Sans to continue, but you're afraid the situation will become carried away.

“All right?”

You nod, eyes still shut. You haven't had much experience with kissing with boyfriends in the past, not like this, and by the gods does it make you weak in the knees. You're glad to be lying down, or else you might fall.

“No more for today.”

“Can’t take it?” Sans teases, rising and sitting you in his lap.

“Any longer and I would have fainted.”

“My girl is so pure.”

You smack him with no heat behind it, only because you're thoroughly speechless and still buzzed with the magic running through your body.

“Seriously, that's enough magic for me. I'm only human and tiny at that,” you say into the fabric of his shirt.

“Easy enough, I just have to stop channeling magic into you.” And his phalanges inch beneath the hem of your shirt, earning a yelp from you.

“You know what I meant!”

“I do, I'm choosing not to listen.”

You do manage to stem him from exploring further, although he truly wasn't planning to go beyond a few kisses, he pledges. The two of you resume your forgotten books, basking in each other's warmth.

“You know,” Sans begins, twisting your hair into his white fingers, “I can get used to this.”

A pale blush paints from your neck to your ears. “Not yet.”

“But soon.” He is so confident you will go through with the adoption, and you give him no reason not to believe otherwise. You come your three days with a smile and open heart, eager to learn more about what makes Sans Sans.

“Soon,” you say, smiling. It's not hard at all to imagine him coming home with you.

“One more kiss.”

This time, you can't help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over the year, i've been doing some thinking—i find it harder and harder to build content for this story, which is why i haven't updated or even touched this piece in nearly a year. i've come to adore the world i created, and it's sad i can't find inspiration for it anymore. i don't want to put a few words together for the sake of having another chapter, i want to give my readers genuine craft. i've been trying to rewrite it during my own time, and i do plan to publish the revamped version in the near future. for now, i'll write a couple more chapters for this, and then mark it as complete. you all have been incredible support, each comment, kudos, and bookmark always making me smile like a dork. thank you for your love.


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